


stellify

by atavists



Series: do you lot think southgate is homophobic? [4]
Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Aston Villa, English Premier League, M/M, Manchester City
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-18 07:07:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29114256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atavists/pseuds/atavists
Summary: Stellify: to change, or be changed, into a starA week in which Jack wonders what has changed.
Relationships: Jack Grealish/John Stones
Series: do you lot think southgate is homophobic? [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1788670
Comments: 1
Kudos: 33





	stellify

**Author's Note:**

> Trust me to tell myself I was going to take a break from writing this story only for John to go and have the month he’s had. Mate. How. 
> 
> This one is written from Jack’s pov - took a crack at it for some purely self-indulgent domestic bliss. After the events of the past few weeks I couldn’t resist.

Fucking hell, Jack had missed that face. It meant more than anything to see the confidence on it too. The scruff on the chin and above the upper-lip was looking a bit outgrown though. He’d be taking a razor to it later - John wouldn’t let him, but he’d do his best to try. 

An added bonus of his boyfriend being brilliant was the cameo he’d been making before every kick-off as the camera was forced in his face and the commentators raved about his recent form. 

“And behind the dazzling momentum Manchester City have gained in recent weeks is that man John Stones, responsible, or at least half-responsible alongside his partner Ruben Dias, for what is so far the best defensive record in the Premier League this season.”

‘His partner Ruben Dias’? Jack had a little chuckle at that. He knew it meant nothing more than the pair were defensive partners, but pundits always wanted to talk about chemistry, didn’t they, to big up bromances between players. All Jack knew was that John hadn’t actually had much to say about Ruben, which was a good thing. He’d learned that if John didn’t have much to say about something it meant he wasn’t thinking about it, and if he wasn’t thinking about it, it didn’t matter to him. Not that Dias’d be much competition for Jack anyway - he wasn’t John’s type. 

Jack wished he could reach out and put his arms through the image on the TV, wished he could pull John out of the screen and into the living room beside him where he belonged. It was coming up on two weeks since they’d last seen each other. A fucking corona outbreak in the Villa squad had not only shut down their entire first-team training sessions but had also meant John couldn’t return home in case he got it and the same ended up happening at City.

It was a good thing John’d kept his flat in Manchester, some bright thinking on his half as per. Jack had grumbled at him - what did he need an empty flat in the middle of Manchester for if they were living together? Convenience, for one, John told him. If he was playing late he could stay over instead of falling asleep at the wheel on his way down to Birmingham. The second reason was to avoid suspicion. If the City staff ever needed to send something to him, or one of his teammates offered to drop him home, he couldn’t exactly turn around and reveal all. 

At least John had got his January rent’s worth. Being separated by coronavirus wasn’t something the pair had thought about but it’d definitely wound up as being a problem. They were technically already breaking both of their club’s bubbles - something that John loved to say meant fuck all, anyway - but Jack knew it wasn’t as simple as that, not with the way John also loved to panic and fret about anyone finding out they weren’t following the rules.

He’d slipped up by reminding John that if anyone did end up finding out they weren’t following the rules of the corona bubble there’d be bigger things to worry about, like explaining why the two of them lived together in the first place. 

Jack spread himself over the spot John would usually occupy on the sofa and gazed up at the telly. He was soon joined by a warmth at his side, the sound of panting in his ear. When John moved back in it’d been halfway through November and Jack was days off getting the dog he’d been waiting for for months (the breeders had to raise him, train him properly, all that). It was a sleek black-haired alsatian he’d christened with the name Apollo, after Apollo Creed obviously, the Rocky legend he’d watched every other Sunday with his dad growing up. He’d have probably called him Rocky if Tyrone hadn’t got there before him and taken the name for his own boxer dog. 

One thing he hadn’t done was tell John. He’d honestly just forgot, sort of, because he was too content, too caught up in the honeymoon phase of having him back. It hadn’t even crossed his mind until the breeders brought Apollo round to settle him in. John was at training but his shit was all over the place, one of his warm-up jackets marked JS5 hanging over the radiator in the hallway. Jack grabbed it and threw it behind the nearest object as the breeder walked in.

“Now, Apollo’s been trained to recognise you and your scent Jack, but is there anyone else who’s round a lot? Anyone who’ll be letting themselves in and out that we need to make him aware of?”

Jack grimaced. He couldn’t exactly say yes, because then he’d have to reveal he had John living with him, but he couldn’t exactly say no either, because suddenly the idea of John arriving home only to be attacked as he turned his key in the lock no longer seemed as funny as it might’ve in an ideal world.

So Jack decided to reel off everyone who’d ever stepped foot in the house, his family first, then some friends, and he casually slipped John in between all the other names. The breeder told him not to worry and showed him a trick he could apparently do himself, using an item of clothing to get Apollo to trust the scent. As soon as Jack was left alone with his new companion he went and dug out the training jacket of John’s and put it on Apollo for good measure. 

John had walked in fifteen minutes later to a huge, howling dog clothed in his jacket.

“What the fuck’s this?” 

“It’s a dog,” Jack had told him, holding Apollo back by his collar. 

“It’s a dog?! That’s weird, that— for a moment I thought it was a fucking cat!”

“Alright, alright. Don’t be a dick about it.”

“I’m not being a dick, Jack, it’s just— well why the fuck’s there a dog here, and why the fuck’s it got my jacket on?”

“Suits it, don’t he?”

John looked like he wanted to turn around and walk straight back out the door. In the end it took no more than two days for him to fall in love with Apollo, and Apollo to fall in love with him. On Champion’s League nights when City were in Europe, or late away days when Villa were down in London, whoever was left at home had Apollo to keep them company. Jack had been told by the breeder not to let him in their bed but with John in Manchester for the past two weeks he’d been naughty and invited Apollo to sleep at his feet. There was no way John was having that when he got back.

Jack hardly bat an eyelid when City got off to another strong start. Crystal Palace seemed as good as shut out of the game, and that was backed up by the stats when the possession figures appeared in the bottom corner of the screen. Dias and John were once again finding themselves with nothing to do except stretch the pitch and pass out from the back. The most they moved in the first twenty minutes was when they got to go up for a corner, hands to their mouths as they murmured instructions to each other that’d probably prove useless in ten seconds time. 

De Bruyne put the corner in. It was headed away but he was definitely looking his best, especially when Sterling passed the ball back to him and he found himself on the edge of the box. A swerving, lofty cross was lifted in on his right foot.

A line of City players made the run towards the six-yard box. Jack could see it happening in slow-motion, the way all the other blue shirts peeled off and left just one person to rise up and connect with the ball. John met it with his head and gracefully nodded it into the bottom left of the net.

Jack went fucking mental. Apollo went fucking mental. The commentary echoed his own yells of John’s name as he hurdled the arm of the sofa, head thrown back in gleeful laughter at the sight of the goalscorer punching the air as he ran off to the corner. 

Goalscorer. John Stones, the goalscorer. Jack would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought that goal at Old Trafford a couple of weeks ago had been a fluke. An amazing fluke. Well, maybe not a fluke, but there was a lot of luck in it. He’d basically scored with his dick for fuck’s sake. Jack had rolled off the sofa and onto the floor in a fit of laughter when it happened, glad there was no neighbours to hear the racket he was making.

And in the two games following the United fixture, Birmingham City and Brighton, John had once again done the business. He’d hardly conceded a shot and it was scary just how good a side City looked with their defence on top form. At the heart of it was John. Dias too, but more John. Jack wouldn’t deny Dias was annoyingly good as well, but he was biased, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Jack thought back to the John he’d first met, an anxious player lacking confidence who’d put himself down whenever he got the chance. But he’d always known John had it in him to be the player he was now, the player he’d been in days past, and a much better version of that player as well. He was too smart not to be. Jack wouldn’t take any credit, but the saying happy wife, happy life, came to mind.

To be fair to John, there’d been a time just before Christmas that he’d been banging on about the fact he hadn’t scored for years. Jack hadn’t really been listening, half asleep with his head on John’s chest, but thinking about it now he remembered exactly what had been said.

“It’s all well and good that I’ve worked on my defending, I mean— that’s my job, isn’t it, but there are far better defenders out there than me. The thing that sets me apart probably isn’t my defending. It’s what I do going forward. So I need to start getting my numbers up there, getting into positions in the box, scoring goals from corners.”

“Fuck me John,” Jack had laughed, eyes shut, “who’d you think you are? Me?”

When the rebound of a saved header from Dias fell into John’s path, Jack realised he might have to eat his words. Open-mouthed, he watched as John drew his leg back, and with the skill of a seasoned striker he put his left foot through the ball to send it flying into the bottom corner. A finish Jack would be proud of himself.

“And what a day this is turning out to be for John Stones!” came the commentary from the TV. “He’s got another one!”

Jack didn’t leap up this time. He hardly moved a muscle. It took a few moments for him to process that his eyes were wet and his chest was heavy, heart thumping from the sensation of pride he felt sweeping over him. He wished someone was there to see his euphoric smile, wished John could see the way he was fucking grinning to himself like a love-drunk idiot. 

It was a shame there were no fans. If anyone deserved to hear the roar after a goal it was John. At least he was on the receiving end of enough love from his teammates - maybe a bit too much love from Dias mind, who was clinging to John like he’d just been told he’d won the lottery. 

Jack wondered if John had told his new partner about him. It was unlikely, but you never knew with John. There’d been a couple of times when he’d done or said something and Jack had thought Jesus, where’s that come from, for only an hour later to think, yeah, that’s prime John, that’s exactly the type of thing he’d do. 

Scrolling through Twitter made Jack feel high. Every other tweet spelled out nothing but praise for John. World-class, England’s best central-defender, the type of defender who was so classy he could be considered a midfielder in disguise. He wanted to retweet every single one he saw. Clog his follower’s feeds with propaganda. No matter - he’d do one better.

He waited for a replay of John’s first goal complete with De Bruyne’s cross and filmed a boomerang of the TV screen. Two goat emojis were added for good measure before it was uploaded to his Instagram story. The usual suspects would soon flood his DMs with comments about his praise for De Bruyne, but little did they know it wasn’t the midfielder he was calling the greatest.

Sterling scored late on to let Palace know just how shit they’d been and just how good City were. It ended four-nil. City’s next opponent? Only Villa in three day’s time. Villa, who hadn’t played since New Year’s, and City, who hadn’t conceded a goal since then either. 

Bring it on, Jack thought. But he had something else to look forward to first. With the isolation period over for the Villa squad, John could finally come home.

He went and showered, styled his hair especially for the occasion, and put on his tightest t-shirt and smallest pair of shorts. John’d be fucking knackered and Jack reckoned he wouldn’t be lasting any more than ten minutes but as long as they both got off it’d be a good night all round. He settled himself on the bed, put an old episode of Power on, and decided he’d be willing to pay a speeding ticket fine if it meant John got home sooner.

He wasn’t too sure what was happening, but Apollo was barking his head off. Fuck’s sake. He inched his eyes open and realised he’d fallen asleep, the TV suspended as Netflix asked if he was still watching. 

There was shuffling from downstairs and the sound of the back door being opened. He shot up off the bed and hurried downstairs, following the sound of Apollo’s barks. A dim glow from the kitchen lights was cast across the floor, and he couldn’t remember if he’d left them on. 

He rounded the corner and stopped in his tracks. John was stood there with his back to him, his broad shoulders curved and his neck craned forward as he slowly stirred a spoon through his tea. Jack wasn’t one to be nostalgic but it suddenly felt like the first time all over again, like he’d come down from his own world to find something new and untouched that sent his heart racing. 

“Hi,” John called over his shoulder, not needing to turn to know Jack was hanging in the doorway. “Kettle’s just boiled, if you want a drink.”

Jack could hear the same nervously excited tinge he was feeling in his stomach in John’s voice. He didn’t know if it was just the temperature of the house but his arms were laced with goosebumps, skin prickled from the cold.

“Na, I’m alright,” he told John, who still hadn’t turned around. “It’s freezing in here, though.”

“I just let Apollo back in. Tried to get him in his bed for the night but for some reason he wasn’t having it.”

Jack stifled a laugh and changed the subject. “It’s proper late. How long you been back?”

The question was his way of letting John know he was annoyed at himself for not being up to welcome him home, not because he’d started to wonder if John’s muted behaviour was down to him feeling the same. 

John shuffled along the length of the kitchen counter and chucked his teaspoon into the sink. He returned to his mug of tea and took a lengthy sip before finally turning to face Jack. A wave of bliss swept over him when their eyes met, his limbs suddenly heavy under the weight of how he felt about the man in front of him. 

“Let’s just say I’ve been back long enough to see you passed out on the bed, snoring away,” John declared, the corners of his lips sparked. “Couldn’t bring myself to wake you up.”

They both knew he would’ve woken Jack the second he got into bed, deliberately as well. 

“I just lay down and I was gone. I was ready to give you a proper hero’s welcome before I nodded off as well, you know, thought I’d better get the champagne out or something.”

“Fireworks in the garden. A congratulations, you’ve finally scored in the league after nine years card.”

“Exactly,” he grinned.

His eyes caught on something nestled under John’s keys on the worktop. He was no stranger to the object and had a good few of his own lining the shelves in the dining room. In the past few months John had brought home more than Jack had, and each time he’d tried to hide it and discreetly slip it in amongst the ones with Jack’s name on. 

“Another one,” he marvelled aloud, reaching out to brush his fingertips over the man of the match award.

John scratched at his stubble and nodded. “Another one.”

“What’s that now, your fourth in a month?”

“Na. Only my third, I think.”

“We’re gonna have to clear some space on the shelf, aren’t we?”

“Dunno about that,” John murmured, shaking his head at the floor. “Can’t be getting ahead of myself.”

Jack sighed and thought about something for once. John wasn’t acting quiet because he was annoyed at Jack for not being up to greet him. It was probably because he was shying away from a fanfare or a round of applause, didn’t want smothering in congratulations. Jack had known not to do that anyway, had envisioned John’s teammates giving him enough of it, but he was still desperate to wrap his arms around John’s neck and raise up on his toes, to kiss him until his lips were swollen, to tell him how fucking good he’d been and how proud he was. 

He’d waited this long to do it. He could wait another moment.

“You do know you’re allowed to enjoy this, babe? I mean, only you would convince yourself it’s all downhill from here.”

John winced and turned his head to the side, definitely fuming that Jack had yet again proved he knew him inside out. John thought too much, and Jack not enough, so every time Jack anticipated what John was doing before he could even understand it himself was a special moment. 

“No, I know I should be enjoying it.” He paused to sigh and folded his arms across his chest. Jack noticed the raised veins under his skin, the thick lines more prominent than usual, and found himself praying John would just shut up and fuck him. “I want this to be normal, though,” he carried on, oblivious to Jack’s drooling. “I don’t want it to be out of the ordinary that I’m playing the way I am. I don’t wanna slip up, and Aymeric take my place again, nothing’d be worse. I want that starting spot to be mine until I retire. I’m enjoying it, of course I am, but this should be normal. I don’t want to celebrate something that should be normal.”

Jack stared at John blankly. The hands of the clock on the wall were ticking up to one in the morning. This man had played a full fucking ninety minutes, hadn’t seen Jack in two weeks, and yet here he was, stood in the kitchen rambling on about some shite he’d obviously been sat on for a while. No-one else Jack knew would do that sort of thing.

“So you don’t think Van Dijk would celebrate if he scored twice in a league game and won man of the match?”

John stammered a bit, eyes wide as if he was caught in headlights. No, no-one else Jack knew would ever do this sort of thing, and he loved him for it. 

“I’m only taking the piss, babe. What you’re saying is all good, and I sort of agree with you, maybe,” Jack said, trying his best to sound convincing. “But no more thinking about it, ‘cause you’re doing my head in to be honest, and I’ve got fucking blue balls.”

“You’ve not had a wank since I’ve been gone?”

“Well ‘course I’ve had a wank, but it’s not the same, is it?”

That seemed to be all Jack needed to say to get through to him. He stayed put and let John come over to him, a wave of warmth flooding south as his boyfriend’s hands settled on either side of his face. His hands were so fucking big, and Jack almost said that out loud, but stopped himself because he knew it’d only make John splutter with laughter and for now this was all a bit arousing in the kind of way you’d only see in movies, especially with John looking at him like he wanted to give him children, if only that was possible. He tasted so familiar, Yorkshire Tea and post-match peppermint gum, and he hadn’t forgotten how to do that thing with his tongue that made Jack weak at the knees. 

He got exactly what he’d asked for in the end, held down to the mattress as John used every last bit of energy in his body to pleasure him. Each inch of burning skin on his chest, his shoulder blades, and his neck, was covered by John’s lips as he pushed himself deeper into him, leaving him with a dry throat and spasms in his thighs. 

Jack came before John as he almost always did, vision black at the edges as he met John’s open-mouth with his own and felt the man spill into him. They both crawled under the sheets soon after, placid enough to let Apollo sneak his way onto the bottom of the bed. 

“You’ve been letting him sleep in here, haven’t you?” John asked through the dark, pulling Jack closer. 

“Like you wouldn’t do the same.”

The following morning Jack woke to the sound of John’s unconscious breaths. Careful not to disturb him, he rolled onto his side so he was facing him. He wasn’t sure if it was just the high he was still feeling after the way John had fucked him last night or if he was half-asleep and delirious, but all he could think about was how much he fucking fancied him.

Waking up before John was usually a sign of a good week, and with it being Monday Jack cherished the occurrence as an especially good omen. He’d come to learn John was a light sleeper who’d wake at the slightest touch, but hated getting out of bed, had to be dragged out if it was any earlier than seven. There’d been many mornings when Jack had opened his eyes to find John lying there, staring at the ceiling, looking as if he was trying to work out the meaning of life. Overthinking. That’s why being awake before John signified a good week. It meant he was sleeping peacefully, meant he had little to worry about. It meant he was happy. 

As nice as it was to see John sleeping peacefully, to look at the strange shape of his face - well, strange, but handsome, because of the height of his cheekbones and the hollows of his cheeks, his deep-set eyes and his full lips - it wasn’t long before Jack was considering waking him accidentally-on-purpose. He’d scrolled through his phone for a bit to see if John would stir but then he’d started snoring again and Jack was thinking about the fact he had training in a few hours and he wanted a round two of last night before he left. 

Eventually he got bored and poked John’s cheek a few times. Before John could open his eyes Jack rolled over so his back was facing him and pretended to be asleep. It was too easy - he took the bait and began kissing his shoulders, tightened his arms around his waist, none the wiser as Jack sighed sweetly and pressed himself against John’s hard cock with an innocent sigh.

An hour later when they’d both showered and Jack was getting into his training gear John emerged from the bathroom, one arm folded across his chest as he brushed vigorously at his teeth. 

“You looking forward to Wednesday night?” he asked through the froth of toothpaste. “Pep’s been stressing.”

“Pep sound’s like he’s always stressing. He’s probably looking forward to it. Tell you what I am looking forward to.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m looking forward to meeting Ruben finally.”

A thundercrack of a laugh spilled from John’s throat. “I bet you are,” he exclaimed, baring that shit-eating grin of his. “Decent looking lad like that. Six-foot-two. Centre-half as well.”

The twat. “Sounds like he’s my type.”

“Oh, he’s exactly your type. Want me to introduce the two of you?”

“Na. Wouldn’t want to break up your grand romance with him. It’s all anyone’s going on about at the minute.”

John disappeared back into the bathroom. Jack heard him spit into the sink and rinse before he returned with a smirk.

“The same way they were banging on about you and Barkley, then?”

Jack was lucky John couldn’t hide the way he was feeling, otherwise he’d wonder if he was being serious. He’d been uneasy about going back to Villa after the international break and acting like everything was the same as before with Ross, but John insisted they should forgive him, explaining that Ross was insecure and had always struggled to maintain relationships. It wasn’t to say they’d all be best friends, but as John had put it, “in the interest of Villa’s season, just get over what he’s done and get on with him.”

It was awkward between the two of them at first. Jack wasn’t one to hold a grudge, but Ross had fucked with John, and that was a step too far. In the end his teammate couldn’t say fuck all anyway, because John had hit him in just the right place that it’d caused a minimal fracture to the jaw, and Ross valued his pride too much to let that be common knowledge. 

“I suppose in some way it works out,” Jack shrugged. “People only see your relationship with Dias, and only see mine with Ross. Throws them off the scent, you know, of us. Is that how you say it? Throws them off the scent?”

With a laugh John made his way over to Jack and engulfed him in his arms. “That’s exactly how you say it babe,” he smiled, pausing to plant a kiss on the top of his head. “Though weirdly enough, it doesn’t do much to reassure me of anything. Think Tyrone’s waiting for you outside. I can hear the engine.” 

Lucky him. Back to training, and back to getting lifts everywhere. The worst thing about the year so far wasn’t lockdown, or the miserable weather, or not seeing any of his family - not when he’d had his fucking license taken off him. It was his own fault and he knew it, but that only made it far fucking worse than it already was.

Getting taxied around was only good for one thing, and that was getting to see the inside of his mate’s cars. He was in Ty’s more than anyone else’s, mostly because the only place he ever went was to training and back, and he couldn’t be arsed explaining to people who didn’t know about John why there was a Rolls Royce sat on his drive that he clearly had no use for. 

He’d got so much stick for losing his license from the lads at Villa, and when he’d told John about the court verdict he’d expected to hear “rightfully so” come straight back at him. To John’s credit he’d held his tongue and tried his hardest not to be smart about it. Must’ve been a challenge for him. 

There’d only been one occasion that John had used it against him. It’d happened at a time when emotions were naturally high - Christmas Day morning as the pair drove to Jack’s parents house, no less. It was the first time John had been able to meet them, legally, with lockdown and all. Jack reckoned John was secretly hoping the government would make a last minute announcement to say you could no longer mix households, but he wasn’t spared, and he’d put on a fucking show about it in the car on the way there.

“What if they don’t like me? What if they think I’m stuck up or something? Or just a shit player. Has your dad ever said anything about me? Bet he’s said some right shit about me. I’m not saying your dad’s a twat, like, of course I’m not— it’s just I was playing so shit the last time I got a run of games that he probably said it anyway.”

“Would you just concentrate on getting us there? You’re sat in the middle lane doing seventy.”

“I’m not having you tell me how to drive. Have you ever even taken a bloke to meet your parents?”

“You know I haven’t. You know I didn’t tell them until, like, September, after I got my first call up.”

He’d tried to hold back a smirk as he watched John from the corner of his eyes. He was rubbing his free hand over the top of his thigh as he used the other to steer, which Jack figured was his way of avoiding biting his nails. Well in. He’d have to make sure it didn’t just turn into another anxious habit, mind. 

“That’s only more pressure to impress them, then.”

“Fuck’s sake, John.”

“Don’t you fuck’s sake me,” he scolded. “We can’t all be the type that has every mum head over heels from the first minute.”

He’d apparently forgotten that he was exactly that type. Besides, Jack hadn’t had the chance to prove the claim. John was yet to tell his parents about Jack, but he’d made it clear he felt guilty about it. Jack reassured him he didn’t mind, not at all, knowing that John needed time and trust to make such a step. There was no rush.

“I can’t believe you’re the one stressing about what my parents are gonna think of you. I was in court the other week getting my fucking license taken off me. Bet your mum and dad’ll love that, won’t they?”

The sharp draw of breath John took between his teeth confirmed Jack’s suspicions. “I don’t think they’ll care. As long as I’m happy.”

“That’s one of the worst excuses you’ve ever come up with babe, and you’ve come up with a lot of bad excuses.”

“That’s rich coming from you. Do you need reminding what it was you did to lose your license? I’m sorry, but what was your excuse to me that night? Something along the lines of, can’t come and meet you John, it’s a pandemic, think of the NHS and the poor nurses and—”

“You’ll never shut up about that, will you? You’re a prick, John.”

“I’m right, Jack.”

“No surprises there.”

Five minutes of silence passed, which meant they were also a mere five minutes away from pulling up at his parent’s front door. John had proper pissed him off, and they were both aware of it. Naturally, Jack expected an apology in three, two—

“I’m sorry,” he sighed, reaching out to place a hand over Jack’s thigh. “Shouldn’t have said that. Was an easy shot to take.”

“Na, it was fair enough, really. I’m surprised it’s taken you this long to bring it up.”

“Me too, actually,” he admitted, permitting himself a grin. “I’m just shitting it. Can’t remember the last time I met someone’s parents.”

“You’re a natural at this sort of thing. Just be yourself, tell some stories about Roberto Martinez or David Silva or something, and eat all of your dinner. They’ll rate that.”

He hadn’t been wrong on the dinner front. As soon as they walked in the door Jack’s dad had looked John up and down, jaw agape, and said, “Jesus son, you really are built like the side of a fiver. Thought it might’ve just been the way you looked on the telly, but no. Think it’s time we got some dinner down you.”

Jack found that absolutely hilarious. Side of a fucking fiver. Fuck knows how many times John had heard that sort of thing over the course of his life but he was a good sort as always, smiling from ear to ear as Jack’s dad carted him off to the garage to interrogate him under the guise of showing him the beer selection.

Just as Jack had suspected, John settled right in. He held his own in conversation at the dinner table even with Jack’s sisters interrupting every few seconds, had offered more than once to help clear the plates, and smashed pretty much every game they played after dinner from charades to dominos, hangman to monopoly. They’d all got that goofy, tipsy sort of wine drunk, and all Jack could remember towards the end of the night was laughing until his stomach hurt and his cheeks ached, as well as a conversation with his dad he didn’t think he’d ever forget.

They’d been sat on the sofa together, watching on as Jack’s mum dragged John around the room to the sound of Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree. 

Jack nudged his dad and lowered his voice. “What’d you think, then?”

“He’s polite, got a good sense of humour. He’s a smart lad.”

“Too smart for me, sometimes.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t think so,” his dad told him. “He’s got one of them faces where… where you can see everything on it, if that makes sense.”

“Can’t hide how he feels.”

“Exactly. And every time he looks at you, Jacko, he looks like he thinks the world of you. That’s how it should be.”

Jack thought back to what his dad had said moments before the referee blew his whistle to start the ninety minutes at the Etihad. The rain was coming down in icy daggers, shrouding both teams in a cloud, but through the haze across the halfway line he could just about make out the sight of John stood there gazing at him like he was the only thing that mattered. 

He hoped John’d pack it in and focus on the game, for his own sake. As much as Jack melted at the sight of him putting those man of the match trophies on the shelf he had one job, and Villa were up for it tonight.

They came out of the blocks strong. But it seemed to be nothing to John, Dias, and Ederson, who almost looked bored, always in the right place at the right time to calmly collect it and pass it around. It wasn’t long before the home side got a corner. Up came the two central defenders, shoulder to shoulder as they strolled into the box. 

Jack wondered if John would celebrate if he scored. He knew he’d be celebrating if he managed to get the ball into the net. He’d be doing a fucking knee slide and all, making the most of the wet turf that was practically begging for it. And where better to score, really? Anfield, maybe, and Old Trafford of course, but he’d been there, done that. It was a nice stadium, the Etihad. Didn’t quite have the charm and history of Villa Park, but a nice one all the same. 

He didn’t know how he felt about calling another ground home, or the thought of putting another side’s shirt on, but it’d crossed his mind once or twice. The thing that confused him the most was aside from the lack of European football he’d be happy - he’d done nothing to cause speculation about a move other than play the best he could. 

After the Euros it’d be anyone’s guess as to what offers might be on the table. In hindsight he shouldn’t have signed that extension in September, but he’d felt lost without John and his head hadn’t been in the right place to make any other decision. He wanted to play European football, and as much as he loved his club, would do anything for it, he had to think about what he wanted.

All he knew for certain was that he wasn’t moving away from John, and John wasn’t moving away from Manchester. There were only three clubs in a hundred-mile radius of the city guaranteeing European football - Liverpool, United, and City. Liverpool didn’t need him with the players they already had, and they weren’t exactly big spenders.

That’s why a Manchester move made sense. It didn’t matter for now anyway. He’d cross to that bridge when he got to it.

He watched from his spot on the edge of the box as De Bruyne’s corner swung in and Rodri headed it into a dangerous area. Jack thought it was all over already as the ball flew off Bernardo’s foot only for Emi to make a unreal block. It didn’t get far though, with Gundogan and John both lunging in for it to surely tuck it away. Matty and Ty as good as clattered into the pair of them, leaving all four in a heap, the ball flying into the stands.

Jack wanted to race over, to dig John out from beneath the pile and make sure he wasn’t hurt, but in the end he didn’t need to. Dias did it for him. 

The defender did exactly as Jack would’ve done - rushed in, shoved everyone else to the side, and hung over John until he sat up and gave a nod to say he’d escaped unscathed. They held their hands out to each other and Dias pulled him up, wrapping a strong arm around John’s shoulders as they returned to their end of the pitch. Jack couldn’t quite bring himself to smile, but he was glad Ruben had been there to do what he wished he could. 

It rained every time he played at the Etihad, and it’d started to piss him off. He hadn’t been on the end of as many challenges as he’d usually expect to be but he’d still been on the ground plenty of times, slipping on the slick grass. It was in a bit of a shit state to be honest, at least in terms of what he’d expect from a club with money coming out their fucking ears. He was pissed off at the way they were playing too. Ross was getting into the best positions of them all only to go and play a useless fucking pass into the path of Dias. He’d been out for months, Jack knew that, but now wasn’t the time to use that as an excuse.

His frustration came out when he got caught in separate tussles with Walker and De Bruyne. It was a combination of him fighting for the ball and them skittering across the soaking wet grass, but both of them ended up on the ground clutching a part of their leg. Jack managed to walk away without a scratch, head down as he wondered what John would think of him injuring his two closest mates. 

It was still nil-nil with the rain coming down in buckets when they returned to the pitch for the second half. Jack tried and tried to influence the game, ran as far as he could, but he was shattered, knackered, completely beaten down by the rain. He pushed through the burn in his calves and when the moment came to break on the counter he found himself one-on-one with John on the edge of the box. It was nothing more than an instinct, and one that made him ashamed, but his first thought was that he expected John to bottle it.

And as if John could read his thoughts, he stuck out a boot and nicked the ball out from under Jack’s feet like it was nothing. Without a second look he did a neat turn and passed it across to Dias. Served Jack right, really.

They fought on to the eightieth minute until it unravelled before them. Offside rules and VAR and handballs and refs were fucking ruining it all. The gaffer made that clear from the touchline, then out came a yellow card, and a red, and he was sent packing, off down the tunnel with a shake of his head. 

The last five minutes became a mess of end to end sprinting, random shots on goal, and all tactics being thrown out the window. Jack gave up. It wasn’t like him but there was no chance they were salvaging anything here, no way they’d get two goals in the net to rescue a point. He hung around City’s box, waiting to see if Emi might get a chance to bomb it over the top, but in the meantime he decided to have some fun and shithouse John.

They were jogging shoulder to shoulder, John aware Jack was waiting for the long ball, and as soon as the referee found himself occupied Jack put a hand on John’s back and his leg in front of his feet to trip him up.

John’s instinct was to yell out as he hit the turf. The ref didn’t bat an eyelid and glanced at his watch instead, ready to call an end to the whole mess.

“You little prick,” John called out from behind him, getting to his feet.

Jack glimpsed over his shoulder with a smirk. The look in John’s eyes gave him away every time. He was far too in love with Jack to be angry at him. 

The two-nil scoreline didn’t tell the whole story. When the final whistle blew the only thing that soothed Jack’s disappointment was the thought of finally getting out of the fucking rain. He shook hands with everyone bar John and Dias, who he wasn’t avoiding on purpose, but knew better than to stroll up to when the cameras were circling them. He was pulled this way and that in the tunnel while he made his way up the steps towards the dressing room, somehow finding himself in conversations with everyone from the kitman to City’s new American keeper. The tunnel gradually grew emptier as the last few players made their way to their rightful dressing rooms. Jack went to head into his, ready to get off his feet, before he felt a hand on his waist pull him back.

He turned to find John behind him, who was trying his best to hide the wide smile breaking onto his face. His kit had clung to every curve of his body and his hair was dripping wet, the curls hanging over his forehead above his bright blue eyes.

“The first time we met was here,” Jack said, not sure why, only knowing it was the first thing that came into his head.

“Don’t remind me.”

“Romantic, aren’t you?”

“It’s just embarrassing,” John shrugged, running a hand through his wet hair. “I don’t feel anything like the person I was then.”

“Na, you’re the same person,” Jack declared. “Just… better.”

“Happier,” they chorused at the exact same time, which encouraged matching grins to form on their faces as well.

“I wonder why, eh?” John asked, daring enough to reach out and run his thumb over Jack’s jaw. Neither needed to answer. It soon turned serious as John dropped his tone, attentive as ever. “You okay?”

If he hadn’t asked Jack probably wouldn’t have thought about it. They’d hardly expected to come and get a win, but with the way they’d played they deserved more. 

“Bullshit decisions.”

John just nodded. The moment was broken as someone appeared by his side. And finally, here was Ruben, towering over Jack with his wide frame and mature presence. Jack was sure John had said he was only twenty-three. Get the birth certificate out - there was no way this man was younger than him. Stick him in a shirt and tie from M&S and he’d look more like that one fit chemistry teacher everyone had in secondary school than a professional footballer.

“Hi,” the man said, offering his hand for Jack to take in greeting.

Wasn’t the best moment to be meeting your boyfriend’s work husband after not even managing a shot on goal, screaming all manner of abuse at the ref, and your manager being sent off as well, but he took Ruben’s hand with a smile and squeezed his fingers in his. 

“Jack, this is Ruben,” John said, trying to hide his smirk, “and Ruben, Jack.”

They commented on the rain and how muddy the pitch was, how difficult a match it’d been and how exhausted they were, before Ruben got the hint and bowed out, leaving them to it.

“Don’t think he’s my type, after all,” Jack remarked.

“No?”

“Too serious, not lanky enough. Does he know?”

“About us? Yeah,” John murmured. “Yeah, a few weeks after he first came he asked if I had a girlfriend, and I just told him.” Jack had never seen a smile so big on his boyfriend’s face, so brash and unashamed. “He asked if it was normal here, in the Prem.”

“What’d you say?”

“I told him no, sadly not,” John answered, before pausing to take a breath, “but when you’re Jack Grealish you can get away with anything.” 

“Tell that to the bastard judge who took my fucking license.”

He was being serious, but he got the exact response he’d been looking for from John, a pure and warm laugh that made his heart beat harder. He was thankful John had never been able to hide how he felt. Any slight change in the expression on his face gave him away, was the indication he was someone who thought so deeply about so much. Jack supposed he was lucky, then, because the way John looked at him was like the entire world was right there, right in front of him, and Jack hadn’t seen John look like that often. Come to think of it, he didn’t think he’d ever seen John look at anything or anyone else like that.


End file.
